


The Names We Take

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cassian Andor-centric, Immigration & Emigration, M/M, One Shot, Space Spanish, bonding over shared tragic past, changing someone's name to make it easier to say will always be terrible, han cares, musing on Cassian's past, pre esb, set on Hoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 17:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17166620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: Form ID 181 is to be used by any orphan, ward of the state, or other nameless person wishing to join the Rebellion. Both Han and Cassian have to complete the form upon arrival at the base on Hoth. But only one of them is comfortable with the past and the name he's chosen.AKA: if we're going with the existence of space Spanish, Cassian shouldn't have two s's.





	The Names We Take

It’s odd, what brings two people together in war time. Sometimes it’s a mission. Other times, a common goal. For two captains, both stationed on Hoth, it’s… legal paperwork.

Han finally reaches the front of the line. He can’t believe the Rebellion is big enough, official enough, to merit bureaucratic documents. And yet, here he is, in a small office on Hoth, waiting for his turn to complete whatever documents he needs to get done in order to get to the mess hall.

 

Han passes over his ID, (well, one of many) and the other papers Leia had given him.

The clerk scans them. She’s not a species he knows, with her green-purple striped hair and orange skin, but the Rebellion is full of unusual folks. It’s one of the things he likes about it.

One of the few things.

 

“Your name is Solo?” The bored Legal Work clerk says, one purple eyebrow raised in disbelief. 

 

“Yeah. I mean. It’s mine. Now. It’s fine. All right?” Han’s face heats, and he feels like a boy without a real name again. It lights that fuse of his temper, and his fists clench. “Why the hell do we have legal paperwork, anyway? We’re a rebellion, not a… a law office.”

 

There’s a dry chuckle next to him. Han turns his head to see Captain Andor has appeared behind him. The spy is the only one Han never can hear sneak up on him. It unnerves him, that any human could move that silently, especially in the heavy Hoth gear they’re all stuck in. Captain Andor just nods at Han, and then, at the clerk. “Give him form ID-181.”

“What’s that?” Han is immediately suspicious of any form beyond one called  _ Documents for A Pass in The Mess Hall, _ or something along those lines. 

 

The clerk turns all three of her eyes onto Captain Andor. “That form cannot be given out without express permission of the Military Intelligence branch.”

  
“Yes, well, that’s me.” Captain Andor sighs, long and slow. It’s the sigh, Han thinks, of a man who's probably smoked cigarras in the past and is missing the bad habit now.  “I’m the highest ranking Intelligence Officer on this base.”

 

“You’re a captain.” The clerk nods at his badge. “I heard you turned down your promotion.”

Han hadn’t heard that. What sort of a guy gives up a chance like that? To be something beyond a captain? That’s something to build a legacy on, a career after the Rebellion. If the Rebellion succeeds. Maybe Andor is a skeptic? No, that doesn’t make sense from what Han’s heard of him. The guy’s as passionate as the princess about the mission of this ragtag army. So why turn down a promotion?

 

“I don’t want that form,” Han mutters. He doesn’t need it. He’s not going to be sticking around long enough for any paperwork to process.

 

“It’s required,” Andor replies. “Now, Lieutenant Ry’zaaza, please, the form?” Captain Andor rocks back on his heels, and waits, one hand out, for the document. While he waits, Han studies him. He’s heard a good deal about Andor. That his team got those damn Death Star plans for them in the first place. That he’s been undercover most of his life. Mostly, though, Han just sees him as another by-the-books officer, here to ruin Han’s life with some paperwork. Even if the guy’s really damn good-looking.

 

“Look, kid.” Han says to Andor. “I don’t need your help. I’ll get the damn form myself.” All he has to do is grab one of those datapads on the table, right?

 

“I cannot provide the form,” the clerk retorts. “To either of you.”

 

“Kid?” Andor’s eyebrow arches up. “Fine then.”

 

“What are you, like twenty? Twenty-two?” Han shrugs. There’s something familiar about Andor’s face, something that reminds Han of part of his own past he’d like to forget. Of classes and commanding officers, and more bureaucratic bantha poodoo, only on the other side of the war. He’s told Luke about his time at Carida Academy, but that’s it. He’s not exactly eager for anyone else to know. So, instead, he comments to Andor, “You’re like Leia’s age. You’re a kid.”

 

“Given that you’ve been trying to kiss Commander Organa since you landed on this base, I’m surprised you’d--”

 

“No!” Han turns red. “You’re just. Young. You know. Some idealistic guy, thinking a few quick wins and the Empire will fall.”

 

No expression crosses Andor’s face, as if Han never even spoke. He plucks a datapad from the desk, ignoring the complaints of the clerk, and then passes it to Han without looking at him. “I’ve had to fill it out on every base. Good luck.”

 

After he leaves, Han stares down at the form. The realization hits first of just where he’d seen a face like the man’s.  A moment later, Han realizes he doesn’t know much about Captain Cassian Andor after all.

 

**FORM ID-181**

To provide legal names to refugees, orphans and others without legal name or residency. Please note for those with next-of-kin, Form ID-180 MUST be used. ID-181 is for use for solitary operatives only. Form ID-181 will be used to establish a given name on base, but must be filled out at each new base to ensure accuracy.

  
  


Cassian has already filled out his ID 181, and turned it in. It’s too familiar a process to be painful these days, but that hadn’t always been the case. Lying in bed that night, trying not to think about Captain Solo, he’s stuck thinking about the fields on the form.

**Preferred name:**

**Given name, if known or assumed:**

**Best-estimate-of-age, using Core-Central dating standards:**

**Aliases:**

**Please list any deceased/missing family members:**

 

The first time he’d filled out the form, he’d spent an hour writing down names. Now, if any, he just jots down his father’s. Jeron was the only one the Rebel Alliance has ever cared about, after all. When he was even younger, he hadn’t known to fill out the form at all.

  
_ He’s almost ten now. Almost ten and freshly back from his first solo mission, the prized data chip in hand. General Draven has given him the afternoon off, which means he’s roaming through the halls, stopping to talk with any mouse droid he meets. He knows all of the mouse droids on base by name, and they all adore him right back. He has had to tell them to stop following him in a line, at least, not while Draven is watching. He’s so busy chatting with Chirps, the mouse droid on patrol right now, that he doesn’t notice the older woman approach from down the hall. Not until he hears her voice, as she talks on a comm. _

 

_ “Yes. I agree. We’ll make sure to do the task. We always do, no?”  _

 

_ It’s an accent that sounds… like his. Like home. He lifts his head, and waves, shyly. Cards through the memories of his past until he mutters a shy hello in the language he’d once used every day. _

 

_ The white-haired woman beams at him. Her skin is darker than Draven’s, darker than Cassian’s too. Her appearance reminds him of family that he doesn’t quite remember but her clothes are the military style that is from his life now. There’s a sniper rifle strapped to her back, and her utility belt has an incredible number of pockets. One of the officers told Cassian he’d get his own belt for his tenth birthday and he hopes it has at least half the number of pockets as hers.  “You must be the boy from the T _ _ orreón outpost.” _

 

_ Cassian doesn’t know the name. Or does he…. There had been a tower back home. A big one, he used to climb. One that when the bombs had fallen, its rubble had crushed houses underneath. Was that his home’s name then? Torreón? He tries out the word like it’s a new taste. There have been a lot of those, new tastes and new words, on this base. _

 

_ “Do you not speak Basic after all?” _

 

_ “I--yes. I do.” He nods. “I’m Cassian. Cassian Andor.” _

 

_ Her head remains titled at a strange angle, and her eyes track him the way Draven’s do when he fails a lesson. He stands a little straighter. “I’m a junior officer!” _

 

_ “Are you now…” her voice is soft.  _

 

_ “What’s wrong?” He hasn’t learned not to ask that question. Because he hasn’t realized he’s good enough at reading people that the only time he needs to ask it is when there’s something very wrong. _

 

_ She crouches. “Listen to me, my brave little officer.” She doesn’t say it in a mocking way. Instead, she sounds sad. “Do you remember… did you always have that name?” _

 

_ It’s an odd question. He furrows his eyebrows. Shakes his head. “My family called me mijo a lot. And  ch-chiq…” He stops mid-stammer, shakes his head. He doesn’t remember the name anymore and doesn’t want to get it wrong. Saying the wrong words feels like admitting he’s forgotten his family. _

 

_ The woman ruffles his hair. “Those are good names. But you must have had a proper name. One that… did it sound maybe a lot like Cassian? Is that what Commander Draven heard?” _

 

_ His eyes widen, and he grips onto her sleeve, suddenly, clinging to her. Still used to trusting people enough to reach for them when he’s scared. And he is, scared. Because…. She’s right. _

 

_ “Mijo, eres muy valiente,” a voice echoes in his mind. His papa’s. His papa had told him… to be the man of the house while he was gone. That he was brave. That he was… Cassian scrunches up his nose, trying to remember. His papa had stood in the doorway, his gloved hand on Cassian’s shoulder. Papa had to go… had to… take a stand, he’d said. Had to do the right thing. And he’d told Cassian… he’d said something, and then… he’d said,  “Mi hijo. Casiano Jerón Miguel Andorrez. Mi chico valiente.”  _

 

_ The words echo and echo, the way he sometimes hears the roar of bombs that aren’t there anymore. Cassian stares blankly ahead, before black dots bloom in his vision. There’s the soft whirring beep of a mouse droid, pressing against his leg, trying to comfort him. He bends to pat it’s cool metal surface, trying hard to ground himself in reality the way the teachers had taught him. _

_ Because right now, he is in two places and he is two names. _

 

_ When he wakes, he’s in his small cot in his room, a former closet. They’d decided he was too young for the barracks. Everything looks normal, his desk is still neatly organized with his school supplies and little welding kit. But there are two chairs by his bed. The white-haired woman with the face like his family is sitting next to … Draven. _

 

_ General Draven is here. Pale-faced, and not in his uniform, as if he’d been woken in the middle of the night. Cassian sits straight up, gasping for air. “Sorry. Sorry Sir. I got dizzy.” But his words only trigger a blank stare from his commanding officer. Cassian takes a deep breath, and when he says the phrase again, it’s in the right language.  _

 

_ “Tell him,” the woman says to Draven. “Now. Tell him the truth, Dravits, or I swear, you will lose all support for your alliance from the Albarrio sector.” _

 

_ The way she says that word is unlike the way he’s ever heard Draven or any other officer say it. And they’ve talked about that sector a lot lately. The R’s sound like thunder. His name used to have that same thunder. He remembers now. He remembers his name didn’t end with a thud of a r, like it does now. _

 

_ Draven clears his throat. “We guessed. When we did your paperwork, kid.” _

 

_ “Guessed about what?” Cassian wasn’t surprised. He’d been taught that an educated guess is sometimes all that time allows. But what was there to guess about? _

 

_ He shrugs. “Your name was long. Hard to spell. Wasn’t sure we even heard it right. So, We shortened it.” The general shrugs, and Cassian can’t focus on his face. Can’t focus on anything but the buzzing between his ears, like he’s short-circuiting. _

 

_ Everything is too loud and too bright and too close. Casiano. Cassian. Casi… his mother calling him by a nickname, telling him to run. The bombs… He shakes his head quickly, dark hair flying into his eyes. “My name is Cassian. No. Cassian. That’s it.” _

 

_ “It’s not too late,” the woman says with that accent that sounds too much like his own.  “It’s only paperwork. Wouldn’t you like that? To have your name back? Your father--” _

 

_ “My father is dead,” he replies. There’s no anger in his voice, just coldness. “And my name will do just fine.” He swings his feet onto the floor. When he stands, his head is clearer and his heart just a little colder. _

 

Back on Hoth, Cassian shifts in his bed, still thinking of the past. They had won over the anti-Imperial sources in the Albarrio sector, despite that rocky moment. The woman, Maris Azur, as he’d later heard her named, fought with Draven a great deal, but never with Cassian in the room. She’d sent Cassian holomessages, and he’d never opened a single one.  The one candy she’d somehow snuck onto base for him, bright pink, in the shape of a shell, and exactly like ones he remembered from festivals. Cassian had thrown it out.

 

The only reason he’d gone to the Albarrio sector, years later, was because no one else could. Because it was an order. Never a choice.

 

But his name is still one that doesn’t exist. And he knows,  _ that _ was a choice. 

Cassian is so lost in memories that when there’s a knock at his door, he draws his blaster from his boot. The pistol in his hand feels just as dreamlike as the whispers of that other name.

 

“Got a minute?”

 

It’s Solo.

 

He puts the pistol down, but his face is still tight when he says, “What?”

 

The door swings open, as he expected it to. “Hey. You did me a favor. So. I owe you one. Brought you some whiskey. Good stuff.”

 

For once, the smuggler isn’t lying. He recognizes the bottle as one from Kuat, with a holographic label that declares it to be aged in rare woods and smoked with the finest care.  “Stolen, I assume,” Cassian drawls.

 

“Nah.” Han sets the bottle down and pulls two small glasses from his coat pocket. “But these are.” They’re emblazoned with a family crest with a script Cassian has never seen, which surprises him. Just a little. That Solo’s been to a planet that Cassian knows nothing of. He almost, almost, wants to ask about it.

 

Instead, Cassian just shakes his head. “Go on then.”  He didn’t drink, before Scarif. He still doesn’t, not much, but he’s come to appreciate the warmth of a whiskey while on Hoth. The chill settles into his old injuries, making him feel far too close to the past. Han pours them each a generous dram of the amber whiskey, pushing one toward Cassian.

 

“To the Rebellion,” Han says.   
  


“A more noble toast than I’d expected.”

 

“I’m full of surprises, Andor,” Han replies. He leans against the edge of the desk, looking down at Cassian.  

 

Which also means Han’s hips are are right at Cassian’s eye level. It’s an angle that Cassian’s never had to examine the smuggler from. His mouth goes a little dry. Suddenly, he’s glad for the whiskey. He seizes the glass. “To the Rebellion’s success.” 

  
They lift glasses, and knock back the liquor. It burns pleasantly, deep behind his breastbone, its warmth zinging through tired muscles. Cassian closes his eyes, enjoying that second of guilty pleasure, and pushing away how odd it sounds to have Han call him by his last name.

 

“You ever think about that?” Han asks. “What happens after the success?”

 

“No.” Cassian says, short and sharp. 

 

“Why not?”

 

He shrugs. “I won’t be alive for it.”

 

“Maybe? It’s still nice to dream.”

 

“Dreams are for fools and spice addicts, Solo. I have hope, but I do not waste time on dreams.”

 

“Fine, have it your way.” Han’s bright eyes lock onto his. “But at least, call me Han, then?”

 

Cassian wonders how much of Han’s own name was made up. The last name is evocative, certainly. A choice that doesn’t exactly seem to describe him, not with that Wookie that follows him. Then again, who knows when the man became Solo. “Han. Corellian, right?”

 

“Yeah.” Han replies. “What’s yours from?”

 

“The Rebellion,” Cassian replies, and it’s an answer that only makes sense for him, like so many of his answers. He’s out of the habit of small talk these days, and misses Kay, but the droid needed some new updates after their last mission.

 

Han pours a second drink for himself. After a moment, Cassian offers his glass. One more won’t be nearly enough to get him drunk, but it’s just to take the chill away. It’s enough to push away the memories of a lost childhood, and a forgotten name. 

 

It’s enough to make him wonder if Han is as good at kissing as he is bragging about being good at kissing. Because there’s something about his mouth, about that lazy smile, that draws Cassian in just as much as the whiskey does.

 

The two men don’t speak for a long moment, until Han clears his throat. “Is that why you fight?”

Cassian can’t figure out where Han’s comment came from, so he raises an eyebrow. Han adds, “To make a name for yourself?”

 

A bitter laugh comes from him. “No. I am glad my family’s name will not inherit the crimes attached to my own.”

 

Han just tilts his head, which is surprising. Most of the time, that bitterness is enough to chase off anyone who bothers to ask him a question. After a moment, Han says, “Yeah. I get that too. I.. I used to dream ‘bout telling my kids the hero their dad was, you know? Now, I don’t… I don’t know if I’ll tell them anything.”

 

“You seem pretty sure you’ll reproduce, Solo.”

 

“C’mon, I’m me.” Han gestures at his body with his free hand. The gesture takes in that annoyingly attractive smirk, the strong shoulders, the narrow hips… Cassian looks away, while Han says, “In peacetime, who wouldn’t want to make a baby with a guy like me?”

 

Cassian snorts.    
  


“Hey!” Han nearly spills his drink. “I’m great, that’s all I’m saying.”   
  


“Where do you get your confidence, Solo?”

 

He shrugs. “Beats the alternative.”

 

Cassian is well-acquainted with the alternative. With hating every inch of himself, deeply and intensely. Of knowing every one of his flaws and memorizing each of his failures. It’s why sometimes slipping into a pseudonym is such a relief. It’s easier to pretend to be someone else than admit that he is a failure.

 

Han sighs, runs a hand through his chestnut hair. “You’re not smiling.”

 

“Correct.”

 

“What can I do to cheer you up?”   
  


Cassian finishes his second drink. “Leave?” It’s absolutely not what he wishes Han would do, but it’s what Han should do, what Cassian should ask him to do. And Cassian has always chosen the path of shoulds over wants.

 

Han opens his mouth, shuts it, then nods. “Here. Keep this.” He sets the bottle on the desk, spins on his heel, and storms out. The tiny room is so much quieter, colder, and somehow, smaller, without Han in it.

  
  


Han pauses on the outside of the room, leans against the now-closed door. He’s been an idiot. Tried to befriend someone who clearly didn’t want friends. Hell, he’s not sure Cassian wants anything, beyond the Rebellion’s success.  What’s the point of fighting for something if you don’t want to enjoy it once you’ve won?

 

The thought makes him furious. Han turns around, slams open the door once more. “You know what, you--” He cuts himself off. Because Cassian is standing  _ right _ there. Glaring up at him with those intense eyes. “What?” he snarls.

 

“You ain’t the only one who's lost a hell of a lot.” Han says, his voice more of a growl than he’d expected. “But you… you are the only one walking around, acting like… like you don’t deserve to get whatever it is we’re fighting for. If you’re in this fight, be in it for  _ you, _ not just your damn ideals.”

 

“You have no idea why I’m fighting.”

 

“Don’t I?” Han retorts.  “I heard all about Andorrez’s rebellion when I was at Carida. You look a hell of a lot like him, too, from the holos.”

 

Cassian’s face drains of color. His knees shake, and a second later, he’s falling, held up only by Han’s hands on his collar. “H-holos?” he says, his accent heavy on the word.

 

“Yeah?” Han shrugs. “I looked it up back then, don’t know why. Guess I wanted to know all the shit that I wasn’t supposed to.” He’d spent a little time in the Imperial Archives, something he wasn’t eager for everyone to know. The Rebellion muckety-mucks already asked too many questions of him.

 

“Holos,” Cassian says again, finally putting weight on his legs. ”Drav… Commander Draven said there weren’t any records.”

 

“Draven?” Han shrugs. “Guy’s an ass, hate to break it to you.”

 

There’s a flash of fire in Cassian’s eyes. His hand arcs up, but Han’s good at reading the body language of a brawl, catches the hand, yanks Cassian into his arms instead. Han’s hands pin Cassian’s behind his back, holding him still. “Hey now,” Han whispers. 

 

“You…” Cassian tugs. “Let go of me.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you are an ass.”

 

Han does let go of him, despite his words. Despite the way he wants to hold onto him. Wants to see that smile he’d only seen for a second while they were drinking. Wants his hands tangled in that perfectly groomed hair. No. Shit, he needs to take it slow. Cassian doesn’t think he deserves to live, let alone deserve anything good in his life. No thinking of hair-pulling, or skin-touching, or… any of that. Instead, Han has let Cassian go, and is just watching him. Cassian’s face is flushed, his eyes bright. He’s so damn attractive that Han… utterly didn’t think about what Cassian had said.

 

“Hey! I’m an ass? Well so’s Draven and-”

 

He doesn’t finish his sentence. Because Cassian’s kissing him, hard. Like he’s got something to prove. And, maybe he does. Maybe both of them do. For right now, Han know that all he wants to prove to Cassian is that life, after the Rebellion, will still be worth living.

 

“Shut up, Solo.” Cassian whispers, his hands coming to rest on the small of Han’s back. His heart is racing hard enough Han swears he can hear it, through all their layers.   
  


“Told you to call me Han.”

 

“Not until you fill out your paperwork.”

 

Han’s eyebrows furrow. He opens his mouth. Stops. “Wait. Was that a joke?”

 

“I’m quite serious.” Cassian, for being shorter than him, is quite good at rendering Han utterly immobile, holding him tightly, eyes locked on his. “The form is important.”   
  


“I think you’re important.” As far as pick-up lines go, it’s not his best. But it’s one he means more than most. Han kisses him as shy and awkwardly as the compliment had been. Both of them are a little lost in this moment, maybe a little lost on Hoth in general.

But Han thinks he’s pretty good at finding lost things, and even better at fixing broken ones. Tomorrow, they’ll find those holos. Tomorrow, they’ll fill out more stupid paperwork. But tonight, they’ll have each other.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments welcome, and as always, huge thanks to the RogueOne Discord server for being the BEST writing cheerleaders ever and NoMeDigas for being an awesome beta!


End file.
